One man stood between Jem Hawthorn, the gipsy, and the
Championship of England. That
was the champion himself, the famous Ned Crabb.

In the middle of the eighteenth century, the name of
Crabb was known to every member of the fancy, as the followers of boxing were
called. Hawthorn, however, was almost equally well known. In a short space of
time he had fought his way to the top. Hawthorn was well known for another
reason. He was a constable in the force of six men controlled by blind John
Fielding, the magistrate of Bow Street. The
idea of a police force was new in London, and
many people had opposed Fielding’s plans at first. But the successes of his
small force were changing public opinion, and the constables were becoming
accepted. They were, in fact the beginnings of the famous Bow Street Runners.
Hawthorn had beaten every challenger on his way to the Championship. After
defeating Tom Barton, he sent the usual formal challenge to Ned Crabb. Three
weeks after the challenge, he still had no definite reply from the champion.
“He keeps putting off a meeting with excuses,” said Hawthorn, when John
Fielding asked him what progress he was making. Fielding, who always wore a
black bandage across his eyes, nodded. “The champion is afraid of you, Jem,” he
said. “You think so?” asked Hawthorn. “I am certain of it,” said Fielding. “You
will have a hard job to bring him up to the mark, Jem.” “I am going to him now,
to repeat my challenge to his face,” answered Hawthorn. Ned Crabb ran a boxing
academy not far from Bow Street. It
was the sort of business that many successful fighters dabbled in. The bucks
and dandies of the day often fancied themselves as sportsmen, and would pay
well for lessons from an expert. Hawthorn walked round to the academy, which
was situated in a quite street in Westminster. As he
approached the entrance, he noticed that there was a coach waiting outside the
building. Blinds were drawn at the windows of the coach. Hawthorn was a good
judge of horses, and he could see that the team hitched to the coach were magnificent
animals. A man who owned such horses must be a man of importance. The coach,
however, had no coat-of-arms or other insignia on its panels. It was painted
plain black. As Hawthorn reached the boxing academy, a figure wrapped in a
cloak came hurrying out. From the build and light step, Hawthorn guessed that
the person was only a youth, but he could not see the face. The young man
climbed quickly into the coach. The coachman whipped up the horses, and the
coach clattered away. It was a mysterious incident, and Hawthorn stored it away
in his mind. As a constable, he found anything unusual of interest. But his
first concern was to see Ned Crabb. Briskly he strode into the building. Ned
Crabb had just finished a bout of sparring. He was hanging up his practice
gloves, and chatting to a group of elegant young men who lounged about the
ring. Hawthorn, with his athlete’s built and homespun clothes, was a contrast
to the languid dandies. Crabb frowned as he saw Hawthorn approach. Then he
forced a smile. “Have you come for a lesson, gipsy?” he called. The fashionable
young men laughed, but Hawthorn replied calmly. “All I have come for is an
answer to my challenge, Ned,” he said. “When will you meet me?” Crabb smiled
again. He was as tall as Hawthorn, a few years older, but in the prime of his
strength. “Why should I meet you?” he said, lightly. “I am the champion.” “I
mean to take the title from you,” said Hawthorn. There was no trace of boasting
in his voice. “I have defeated all the challengers between us. You must meet
me.” “No one says ‘must’ to me!” rapped Crabb. “An upstart like you has to wait
his turn! I have no need to fight every man who has a pair of fists!” “I repeat
my challenge in front of these witnesses,” continued Hawthorn, patiently. “I
ask you to meet me for your Championship!” “And I say I please myself what
challenges I accept!” retorted Crabb. “Leave my academy! I can waste no more
time with you!” Hawthorn looked at him steadily for a moment. Then the gipsy
turned and walked out. He knew now that John Fielding was right. The champion
was afraid to meet him.

THE FIGHTING PRINCE

Fielding was waiting when Hawthorn got back to Bow
Street. The magistrate
listened in silence as Hawthorn related what had happened. “You will have to
keep repeating your challenge, Jem,” he said, when Hawthorn had finished.

“Crabb will have to meet you in the end, or admit
publicly he is afraid.” “I want to meet him now, not in six months’ time,”
growled Hawthorn. From outside came the rumble of wheels as a carriage stopped.
Hawthorn went to the window. The coach that had halted in front of John
Fielding’s house was the one with the drawn blinds that Hawthorn had seen
outside Crabb’s academy. The young man in the cloak jumped down and hurried to
the house door. Hawthorn heard Fielding’s servant open the door, and a mumble
of voices. Then the young man burst into the room. He was still muffled up, and
his hat was pulled over his eyes. “Mr Justice Fielding!” he exclaimed. “I must
speak to you in confidence!” “Jem Hawthorn is one of my trusted men,” said
Fielding, calmly. “You may speak freely in front of him.” “This is a very
confidential matter,” said the young man, doubtfully. “You may rely on our
discretion, Your Highness,” said Fielding. “You know me!” exclaimed the young
man. “A blind man remembers voices,” said Fielding, mildly. “I have heard you
speak when I have been at the Palace of Westminster.” The
young man dropped his cloak and flung his hat in a corner. He had a rather
stolid face, and he would not have attracted attention in a crowd, but for one
thing—he was the heir to the throne! “Jem, our visitor is His Royal Highness
the Prince George,” said
Fielding, “grandson of our monarch, King George II.” Titles did not awe
Hawthorn, and he looked with frank curiosity at the young Prince. At that time,
George was about seventeen or eighteen. His father, the Prince of Wales, was
dead, and George was heir to his grandfather. In a few years time, he would be
crowned as George III. But there was nothing particularly regal about the
Prince at this moment. He had the air of a youngster who was in trouble, and
had no idea how to get out of it. “How can we help you, Your Highness?” asked
Fielding. “I came because of the reputation you and your constables are
making,” answered the Prince. “But this must be between ourselves, you
understand! No word of it must reach the King.” “You have my word for it,” said
Fielding. The prince hesitated, then went on quickly. “I have lost a ring! A
diamond ring my grandfather gave me!” “Stolen, you mean?” said Fielding. “I
think so,” nodded the Prince. “And I think I know where. That is why the King
must not know!” “At Crabb’s boxing academy?” suggested Hawthorn. The Prince
turned to him in surprise. “I saw you come out of there not long ago,” explained
hawthorn. “Yes,” said the Prince. “I have been going there secretly for
lessons. My grandfather would forbid me to mix with prizefighters if he knew!
But every man of fashion learns how to use his maulies nowadays!” Hawthorn’s
expression did not change, but it amused him to hear the Prince using the slang
of the ring. It seemed unlikely that the heir to the throne would ever have
much opportunity to use his maulies in earnest. “Two or three times a week I
spar with Ned Crabb,” said the Prince, a note of pride in his voice.
“Naturally, I take off my rings when I wear the practice gloves. I remember
taking off my diamond ring before the bout today. It was not until I was on my
way back to the palace that I realised I hadn’t picked the ring up again. I could
not remember seeing it after the fight.” “You have inquired at Crabb’s
academy?” asked Fielding. “I sent my man back there, but the ring was not to be
found,” answered the prince. “Crabb swore he had not seen it.” “And you believe
him?” asked Fielding. “I have never suspected Crabb of dishonesty,” said the
Prince. He frowned. “But you see what that means? The other men there were my
friends, a discreet circle of high-born gentlemen who could be relied on to
keep silent about my visits. If Crabb did not take the ring, one of my friends
did!” “A considerable scandal, if it came out!” said Fielding, drily. “The heir
to the throne robbed at a boxing academy by one of his noble friends!”
“Exactly!” gasped the Prince. “You understand why my grandfather must not know?
I must get that ring back before the King notices I am not wearing it!” “We
will do all we can, Your Highness,” Fielding assured him. “Can you give me a
list of all the men who were at the boxing academy with you today?” Hawthorn
brought pen and paper, and the Prince scribbled a list of names. Fielding bowed
his thanks. “And now leave it to us, Your Highness,” he said. “We will report
as soon as possible.” “Do not come near the palace!” said the Prince, hastily.
“There are too many wagging tongues there! I will come to you, late tonight.”
He hurried out, his cloak wrapped round him again. Fielding smiled faintly.
“Read out that list of names, Jem,” he said. The Blind Beak sat silent as
Hawthorn read of the names of friends of the Prince who had been present at the
academy. “Lord Harrowby!” repeated Fielding, as Jem came to the last name.
“That’s interesting. “I saw him there,” nodded Hawthorn. “A young buck with a
fortune in clothes on his back!” “And you can wager he still owes his tailor
the money,” said Fielding. “Harrowby is in debt to his ears. He has lost so
much at the gaming tables at Fallon’s that he has been forbidden by Fallon to
visit the place again until he settles what he owes.” Fallon’s was a well-known
club, much patronized by the young dandies of the city. “You believe Harrowby
is the thief?” said Hawthorn. “A man would have to be desperate to steal from
the heir to the throne,” replied Fielding. “Crabb may be reluctant to fight
you, but I do not think he is a thief. Besides, he would not endanger his
valuable connection with royalty in such a foolish way. Of all the other men
present, Harrowby seems the only one in sufficient trouble to take the risk.”
“Shall we call on him?” suggested Hawthorn. “We must handle this carefully,
Jem,” said Fielding. “Remember, no scandal must leak out. Can you watch
Harrowby for a time without arousing his suspicions?” “Ay, that I can,” growled
Hawthorn. “Then see how he behaves,” instructed Fielding. “Look for the signs
of a debt-ridden man who has suddenly acquired wealth!”

A ROYAL REWARD

Fielding sat alone in his room that evening. The room
was in darkness, but a blind man did not need light. Fielding was patiently
waiting, and he turned his head towards the door when he heard footsteps.

Hawthorn came in, carrying a candle. “What news, Jem?”
asked Fielding, before Hawthorn spoke. The Blind Beak had recognised the
footsteps. “Harrowby did not stir out until this evening,” answered Jem. “Then,
half an hour ago, I followed him across town. He went to Fallon’s.” “Fallon’s!”
repeated Fielding. “I waited, but he did not come out again,” added Hawthorn.
“It seems he has settled down for an evening at the gaming tables.” “Now we
have him!” breathed Fielding. “Jem, be so good as to order my coach!” With
Hawthorn at his side, Fielding was driven across town to Fallon’s. He rapped on
the imposing door with his stick, and a powdered footman answered. The footman
looked nervous when he recognised the Blind Beak, but he admitted them. Fallon,
the owner of the club, looked equally nervous, but he conducted his two
visitors to a private room. As they passed an open door, Hawthorn had a glimpse
of the gaming tables, with men playing cards. Harrowby was there, talking
noisily, his face flushed. When they were in the private room, Fallon closed
the door carefully. “And now, Mr Fallon,” said Fielding. “I would like the
diamond ring that Lord Harrowby gave you tonight!” Fielding could not see the
expression on Fallon’s face, but he heard the man gasp. “The diamond ring?” echoed
Fallon. “How did you know Harrowby gave me a ring?” “I guessed!” said Fielding.
“Harrowby was barred from your tables until he settled his debts. Tonight you
admitted him again. It was not hard to suppose that he had given you the ring
in payment of what he owed.” “That is true,” began Fallon. He stopped. “But why
should you want the ring?” “Did Harrowby tell you where the ring came from?”
asked Fielding. “He said it was a family heirloom that he was reluctantly
forced to part with,” answered Fallon. “He deceived you,” said Fielding. “The
ring was stolen.” “Stolen?” gasped Fallon. “From whom?” “That I cannot tell
you,” said Fielding. “But if you will give it to me, I will see that it is
returned to its owner.” He held out his hand. Fallon hesitated, then took a
magnificent diamond ring from his pocket. Slowly he put the ring into
Fielding’s hand. “Are you going to arrest Harrowby?” asked Fallon anxiously.
“Such a scandal! In my club!” “There will be no arrest,” said Fielding. “You
can tell Harrowby I am returning the ring to its owner. He will have to find
some other way of settling what he owes you, I am afraid.” Hawthorn and
Fielding rode back together to Bow
Street. They were waiting in Fielding’s
room when the coach with the drawn blinds clattered up to the house. The Prince
hurried in, an anxious look on his face. “Have you any progress to report?” he
gasped. For answer, Fielding held out the ring. The young Prince was speechless
with relief for a while. Then taking the ring, he slipped it on his finger,
stammering his thanks. Suddenly he frowned. “But where was it? Had it been
stolen?” “We agreed that the less scandal about this, the better,” said
Fielding. “Shall we leave it at that, Your Highness?” “But what can I do to
show my gratitude? How can I reward you and your constable?” “I ask no reward,”
answered Fielding. “It was my duty as a magistrate. But your Highness might do
something for my constable.” “Name it!” said the Prince, grandly. “Persuade Ned
Crabb to meet him for the Championship of England!” said Fielding. “The
Championship?” repeated the Prince. “Jem Hawthorn is entitled to the fight, but
Crabb is evading him,” explained Fielding. “You are Crabb’s patron. A word from
you that you would like the fight to take place soon, and Crabb can hardly
refuse.” The Prince smiled. “You shall have your fight, Hawthorn!” he said.

HARROWBY SEEKS
REVENGE

Two days later, the Fancy was agog with the news that
Ned Crabb had agreed to meet the gipsy to fight for the title. Another piece of
news that caused less stir was that Lord Harrowby had disappeared.

A writ had been issued against him for debt, but the
sheriff’s officers who arrived to escort him to the debtors’ prison found that
he had fled. Hawthorn had forgotten Lord Harrowby. The gipsy was in serious
training for the most important fight of his career. As usual, his training
mainly consisted of sparring with Khan, his pet cheetah, on the wild and
desolate Hampstead Heath. The fight was to be held in a field on the outskirts
of the city. On the day of the match, streams of coaches and people on foot
converged on the spot. Prominent in the crowds were parties of gypsies,
Hawthorn’s Romany brothers, who were the gipsy fighter’s keenest fans. Hawthorn
himself joined Fielding at Bow Street. The
Blind Beak was to take Hawthorn to the fight in his coach. Hawthorn was quite
calm as he discussed the fight with Fielding. This match was important to him,
but he was never nervous at the prospect of a fight. “Well, the coach will be
here in a moment, Jem,” remarked Fielding. “Time we were preparing to leave.”
“I’ll fetch Khan,” answered Hawthorn. Before he could reach the door, it was
flung open. A man jumped into the room, sword in hand, and kicked the door shut
behind him. “Harrowby!” exclaimed Hawthorn. “Stand where you are, gipsy!”
snapped Lord Harrowby. “You, too, Fielding!” “What are you doing here,
Harrowby?” asked Fielding calmly. “I’ve come to kill you both!” said Harrowby.
“Because of you two, I’m being hunted like a dog!” “because we stopped you from
being branded a thief?” said Fielding. “Don’t be a fool, Harrowby!” “I’m going
to cut you both down!” rapped Harrowby. “You’ll never be Champion of England,
Hawthorn! I’m getting out of the country, but before I go I’m repaying you
both!” He lifted his sword. Hawthorn stepped across in front of the Blind Beak.
“Very noble!” sneered Harrowby. “But I’ll deal with Fielding when I’ve finished
you, gipsy!” His blade flashed like a streak of light. Hawthorn flung himself
aside. He stumbled, and went down. Harrowby lunged, Hawthorn tried to roll
aside. A red weal showed through his torn stocking as the blade ripped his leg.
The door was hurled open. A snarling figure had flung its weight at the
woodwork. Khan leapt into the room. Harrowby screamed as the cheetah plunged
for his throat. Hawthorn dragged himself to his feet. Shouting at Khan, he
managed to drag the cheetah away. Harrowby lay limp, his clothes torn and
bloodstained. Fielding still stood in the corner, where he had been trying to
follow the fight between Harrowby and the gipsy. Hawthorn called to him. “It’s
all right now! I’ll lock Harrowby away. Then we can leave for the fight!” He
dragged Harrowby out. In the passage he paused. Blood was streaming down his
leg from the sword thrust. He tore the stocking away, and wrapped a
handkerchief round the wound.

THE LONG MAUL

Many accounts have been written about the fight
between Ned Crabb and Jem Hawthorn for the Championship of England. It is
still discussed as one of the classics of the bare-knuckle days.

When Hawthorn climbed into the ring, nobody knew that
his new stockings hid the fact that there was a bandage round one leg.
Fielding, of course, had not seen that sword slash, and nobody else knew of the
fight with Harrowby. The leg was stiffening, and several boxing experts in the
crowd noticed the unusually flat-footed way in which Hawthorn stood to his
mark. It was his sure-footedness that had carried Hawthorn to victory in many
fights. Ned Crabb looked solid and dangerous. He had been wary of meeting Hawthorn,
but now the match had been forced on him he was ready to fight hard. It was not
Hawthorn he was afraid of, but only the loss of his honours. A vast crowd was
packed into the field. The gypsies gave Hawthorn a roaring cheer as the men
toed the mark. Fielding sat in his coach at the back of the crowd, his hand on
Khan’s collar. Not far away, a young man peered from behind the blinds of
another coach, a plain black one. A great shout went up at the first set-to.
Crabb swung a massive fist. But this time Hawthorn could not dance out of
danger. His leg put a stop to fast footwork. He just blocked it, and hit back.
Hawthorn and Ned Crabb hammered at each other, toe to toe, like two men made of
iron. Crabb was one of the old breed, and this pounding suited him. He had
beaten many a man by being able to absorb just that little bit more punishment
than his opponent. After the fight had been on for over half an hour, it began
to rain. Nobody in the crowd moved. The two fighters went on slogging it out in
the mud. They both went down time after time, and came up again. A man was
beaten if he could not toe the mark inside thirty seconds. But these two men
looked unbeatable. They were soaked with rain, and streaked with mud and
bloodstains. Bruises stood out on their ribs. Hawthorn’s mouth was swelling,
and Crabb had a discoloured eye. Still they fought. The crowd had fallen
silent, exhausted by their own excitement. But the two men in the ring fought
on. The punches came slower. Both men were swaying on their feet. Their seconds
watched them anxiously. But neither man would give in. Their bodies were
failing, but their courage was as high as ever. The end finally came in the
seventy-third round. Crabb lurched in, swung a punch, and missed. He swayed
forward, straight into the punch that had all Hawthorn’s last strength behind
it. Ned Crabb went down in the mud. Hawthorn stood swaying there while the
thirty seconds ticked away. Crabb’s seconds signalled that their man was
finished. A great shout went up from the crowd. Fielding smiled from his coach,
and Khan growled softly. The young man in the plain black coach applauded
loudly. A cheering crowd of gypsies swarmed into the ring. Hawthorn’s knees
buckled, and he sank to the ground. It was then that the gypsies saw the blood
oozing through his stocking. Exhausted and weak, Hawthorn was carried away. But
the gipsy was content. He had written his name in history, as a constable of
the Bow Street Runners, and as the Champion of England.